


Kickstart The Fight

by MermaidSmiled



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, boundaries what boundaries, fight kink, not bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 05:17:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13757097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MermaidSmiled/pseuds/MermaidSmiled
Summary: Tom watches as Andre’s knuckles scab over and heal and split again after a hard practice until they're finally healed, pink and shiny. He watches Andre’s eye blacken where a fist or an elbow caught him and charts the flow of the blood pooling under the skin as the days go by.It's something so unfamiliar to Tom, seeing these things he's used to seeing when he looks down or in the mirror on Andre. He ignores it as best he can.





	Kickstart The Fight

They're a few shifts into the third and Tom’s just settled himself onto the bench to wait for the tap on his shoulder. They're up and feeling good about it, not complacent but they know they have this. 

Tom sees the shove from Coleman and sees Dima hit the boards awkwardly and he's on his feet, throwing a glance behind him to Trotz for the nod that tells him he'll be out there matching Coleman’s line. 

It's a split second, but as he's turning back towards the ice he hears the swelling noise of the crowd and sees fucking Burky of all people with a fist full of the guys sweater and his gloves flying off, Jesus Christ. 

He watches incredulously as their Burky, the Swedish cinnamon roll according to the Internet, is swinging wildly towards this guy’s face. He's not doing great, as fights go, but he doesn't immediately fall on his face and Tom’s pretty sure that counts as a win. 

He and Latts had tried to teach Burky and the other skill guys how to fight if it ever came down to it, before playoffs. It was a joke more than anything, something to do on the ice while they waited for the rest of the team to trickle in for practice. 

He vaguely thinks about how often he and Andre wrestle in the apartment, Tom pulling his shirt over his head and landing a few soft blows. The way that Andre would square his shoulders like this time he’s actually going to win but never does. 

The fight doesn't even last 30 seconds, yet as cliche as it sounds, it lasts much longer for Tom. He sits frozen as Andre makes his way to the box and throws himself down onto the bench. It takes an actual physical effort to make himself look away from the manic grin stretched across Andre’s face and his heaving chest, visible even from the other side of the ice. 

They end up with seventeen minutes of penalties to kill, so Tom gets tapped to go over the boards soon enough. 

His hit on Greene isn’t even really a hit, more of a shove, and more than anything it's not even conscious. It's momentum and the lack of inclination to stop ending with a positive outcome of one of the Devils’ core players ending up sprawled over the ice. 

As he skates away, attention already elsewhere, he feels the fists in the back of his sweater and turns to see Coleman. Tom grins, feral, and twists himself around to get a good grip. 

His heart pounds and his vision is narrowed to where he wants his fists to land. The impact of his fist against Coleman's face and the pain of fists in his own face barely registers. His mouth is still curled into a sharp smile, and if he feels more satisfaction than he normally does when he's dropping the gloves and landing blow after blow without missing well, he's just sticking up for his teammates. 

He throws himself down onto the bench next to Burky, who still has a tiny smile on his face but looks much more like normal, gloves and helmet all properly in place and not being held by the Official while he wipes blood off his face, like Tom. 

His blood is coursing through his veins, roaring in his ears, and he loves it. Not much compares to the rush of the fight, for Tom. Scoring goals, winning games. Winning more, maybe, if they finally pull it together. 

When he looks over at Andre, he can't quite keep down the rising laughter in his chest, and shakes his head as Andre grins back at him, sweet and open. It's more like the Andre that Tom knows, but there's still a glint in his eye that tells Tom he's still riding that high. He looks good. 

On the bus back to the hotel, everything is the same, but slightly off. Like everything's been shifted a few centimetres to the right so they don't quite line up anymore, and now that Tom’s head is cleared a little bit he's starting to notice it. Things are different, even though they're not. 

Andre throws himself into the empty seat next to him and manages to take up twice as much room as someone his size should with his weird octopus limbs. The guys all ruffle his hair or squeeze his shoulder or pinch at his neck as they shuffle by to find a seat and Burky revels in it. He's always loved being the baby of the team, always getting someone to pay attention to him, and it's not something that's going to stop even though they've got guys younger than him making the roster now. 

Toms skin is humming, like it's too big for him or like there's sparks under his skin. He knows it's just endorphins and Adrenaline and the rush of winning the game, it's not something that's out of the ordinary but on this night where everything is different but the same, it's weird. Every time Andre touches him, jabbing at his side or pulling his wrist to get his attention on his phone so they can watch replays of the fight, where he's leaning into Tom’s side to get closer to him so they can both see the screen of the phone, the buzzing gets worse. 

He just needs to get back to his room and jerk off in the shower like usual, enough to take the edge off it so he's not twitching all night. He wants the satisfaction of a good orgasm after a good game and a good fight. 

He thinks he manages to keep up the chirping well enough that no one would think anything was wrong, and there's not, he's just being weird for some reason. Until one of the replays Andre brings up shows Andre skating off towards the box from the front and he gets a look at Andres face, cocky as anything he's ever seen, tugging down the collar of his jersey to pull his chest protector straight. 

It sends a bolt of heat down into his groin, enough that he has to fake a swipe at Burky’s phone to provide cover for him to subtly rearrange himself to relieve any pressure that might cause him a problem when they get to the hotel and he has to stand up. 

Christ. He wants to wipe that smirk off Andre’s face, and not with a few well-constructed chirps. He wants to do it in a way that is definitely Not Bros. Fuck. 

Any hope of shutting himself in the bathroom and taking care of whatever the fuck is going on in his head is crushed when Burky trails him to his room and invites himself in. He flops down onto the bed and kick his shoes off, making himself comfortable and hissing when his knuckles rasp against the bedsheets. 

Tom raises an eyebrow at him and Andre replies with a sunny smile, the one he gives when he wants something. 

“You might wanna ice those, tough guy,” he says, turning to undo his tie and drop it over the chair in the corner of the room. 

“Get me some ice then.” When Tom shoots him a look over his shoulder Andre is sprawled even wider on the bed and looking at him from under his lashes. Tom rolls his eyes. 

“Why can't you go and make Papa look after you, you're basically his son anyway.” He turns back to unbutton his cuffs and drop the cufflinks on the small desk. 

“Nicke doesn't fight, how would he know what to do? You're the best one to look after me,” he shuts his eyes in smug triumph and Tom gets the urge to wipe it off his face again and has to look away. 

“Fine.” 

He grabs the ice bucket and yanks the door open to go and find the ice machine. He hasn't even taken his suit jacket off yet, but he needs to take a few seconds to shake himself. Jesus Christ. 

When he gets back to the room, Burky has stripped off his pants and jacket and is lying there in his boxers and white shirt looking like a cat in a sunbeam. 

Tom grabs one of the towels from the bathroom and pours half of the ice into it before tying together the corners and taking it over to the bed. 

He picks up Andre’s right hand and inspects it a little. The trainers cleaned his knuckles up and sprayed disinfectant. They're not bleeding anymore, but it wouldn't take much to make them either. 

He gently places Andres hand back down onto his stomach and takes not an insignificant amount of pleasure at the way Andre jerks when Tom drops the ice towel onto the skin of his belly where his shirt is unbuttoned and riding up. 

Andre grumbles at him in Swedish under his breath and Tom walks away to finish undressing to hide his smile. 

When tom has changed into a pair of sweats he shoves Burky over so he can stretch out on the bed and relax. 

The remote for the TV Is on the table next to Burkys side of the bed. He looks over to tell Andre to pass it to him and Andre is already looking over at him with a dumb grin on his face. He looks drunk, or high. 

“What's that for?” Tom asks, giving up and just leaning over him to get it. 

Andre actually giggles a little, a muffled “nothing” coming from somewhere between the pillows and underneath Tom’s bicep. He's going to be absolutely useless. 

Tom resigns himself to Burky being a needy idiot until he finally has enough and pushes him either into his own room, or into Nicky's. He tries not to think too much about what he could be doing in the shower right now. 

They find some dumb sitcom to watch after flipping through the limited channels on the tv, something that's not scraping the barrel but dumb enough that they can zone out. Andre still laughs his way through it, small chuckles that he can't keep inside that grow louder the more he laughs. He's absolutely useless, somehow still riding the high of the game and the fight enough to turn him into a giggling little octopus, limbs tangled with Tom's between them on the bed. 

When the show finishes Tom flips through all of the channels again and finds nothing, so he settles on a nature documentary about rainforests. 

There's not much for Andre to laugh at other than baby monkeys falling off branches, so Tom doesn't notice when Andre falls quiet and his breathing evens out until he turns over to make a comment to him and sees him fast asleep, still clinging Tom’s arm. 

Tom has a mini internal crisis, caught between finding Burky pretty cute, huffing out little breaths into the pillow, and not wanting to wake him, because it's been a while now since he started fighting but he still remembers how hard the crash hits you when the adrenaline finally runs out, and the renewal of his post-game chub that he still hasn't had a chance to take care of and now can't. He lies there, staring at Burky’s face and his pink lips while he deliberates. 

In the end, he rolls over onto his back and scoots away from Andre as much as he can without waking him up and covers himself with the sheets. He closes his eyes and steels his nerves for a few seconds before he slides his right hand into the waistband of his boxers. 

As he gets a good grip on his dick and starts moving, slowly at first then speeding up, he rationalises it to himself. It's not like it's the first time he's jerked off while someone was in the room, thanks to always sharing on roadies in juniors and in Hershey, and it's definitely not like he and Andre haven't accidentally walked in on each other before. It's still chill, this is just like, an extension of all of that.

If nothing else, Tom thinks, if Burky didn't want him to jerk off in the same bed as him he should have let Tom go in the shower, or not fallen asleep in Tom's room instead of his own. 

Once he's convinced himself it's not weird to get off listening to Burky’s breathing and the rustle of the sheets he speeds up, not wanting to linger too long. He twists his wrist on the upstroke and squeezes in the way back down, exactly how he likes it, no teasing. He might have convinced himself it's not weird but he still doesn't want to risk Andre waking up just as Tom’s on the edge and blue balling him yet again. 

It doesn't take long to get off, once he settles into it. The buzz in his blood had faded but it was still there, fizzing back as soon as he got his hand on himself. 

He has a second minor crisis after he comes, when he realised there's no tissues on the table next to his side of the bed and if he moves Andre will definitely wake up. The crisis doesn't last as long as the first, he's floating on the satisfaction of blowing a well deserved load after a long day and he just wants to sleep, so he uses his boxers to wipe the come off his stomach. Not ideal but it's the best he can do. It's Future Tom’s problem now. 

Things go back to normal, after that. They skate, they play, they hang out. They watch films in the apartment and take turns cooking, they fight over who has to unload the dishwasher and put everything away. 

Tom watches as Andre’s knuckles scab over and heal and split again after a hard practice until they're finally healed, pink and shiny. He watches Andre’s eye blacken where a fist or an elbow caught him and charts the flow of the blood pooling under the skin as the days go by. 

It's something so unfamiliar to Tom, seeing these things he's used to seeing when he looks down or in the mirror on Andre. He ignores it as best he can. 

Tom's almost forgotten about any lingering weirdness he feels about Burky until a few weeks later when it happens again.

They're at home to the Penguins and everything is going to plan. Three to two at the end of the second with the Caps outshooting Pittsburgh handily so there's nothing major to worry about. 

It's a quirk of the line change that Tom ends up on the ice at the same time as Andre, his line is coming off as Tom’s is going over the boards one by one. One second he's skating up into the offensive zone after the puck and the next he's skating faster, because Burky is in the corner with Reaves and the gloves are flying off in every direction. 

Someone intercepts him on the way over and he swings at them without thinking, and suddenly he's fighting himself and can't get over to Andre. 

He has no idea what it even started over, there was no hit or anything to avenge from earlier in the game, he doesn't even know who started it or why Andre decided to fight instead of letting Tom handle it or at least drawing a penalty to put them on the power play. 

It's nearly the end of period so they both get sent to the dressing room instead of the box. As they're walking down the tunnel he gets a sense of deja vu, remembering how many times he and Latts walked down this tunnel early to go and sit in the room and wait for the rest of the guys to pour in. 

Burky has that cockiness back in his step, radiating from him until Tom has to clench his fists to stop himself doing something. What he wants to do he doesn't know, but the image of Andre against the wall flashes across his mind before he forces himself to think of something else entirely. 

When they get into the dressing room and quietly strip off jerseys and pads in their stall to cool down during the intermission Tom realises that he hates this. He hates Burky fighting because he doesn't want Andre to become that kind of player. They all know he has promise, that he's a top-six material and getting better every season, he doesn't want Andre to be the physical presence they need on the ice. 

It's Tom's job to be that presence, but it's not his role on the team that he worries about. He doesn't want Burky to end up like him and waste his potential. 

In the end they win the game in overtime, a late resurgence from the Pens forcing them to buckle down and make every shot count. Tom drives them home while Burky winces in the passenger seat as he flexes his hands. He's an idiot. 

Andre leaves a trail of discarded clothing from the door to the sofa where he flops down with a groan and refuses to move. Tom steps neatly over the clothes, leaving them for Andre to deal with in the morning. 

He grabs the ice bag from the medicine cupboard and fills it from the refrigerator. He'd chirp Burky for how useless he is at fighting and how he apparently doesn't even know how to make a fist to punch someone without hurting himself just as bad, but he doesn't feel like it. 

Instead he takes the ice over to the couch, picking up a dish towel on the way, and sits down in the only space Burky has left him. When he holds his hand out Burky gives him his hand to look at. Tom isn't a doctor or a trainer but when he runs his fingers over Andres knuckles and the bones in his hand he doesn't feel anything bad. He makes Andre make a fist and relax it a few times to make sure before he places the bag of ice on it and wraps the towel around it. 

He doesn't feel like talking, so he turns the TV on and flips to one of the west coast games and settles back into the sofa when Burky moves his legs enough to let him.

it's almost like it was the first time, them watching tv side by side, except this time they're both much quieter. Tom doesn't want to encourage Andre by asking him what the hell he thought he was doing, because he's seen the looks Andre is giving him, like he's waiting for the attention he wants. Andre isn't as high off it this time, or if he is he's better at hiding it. Instead he spends the whole time trying to sneak looks at Tom from under his eyelashes like he thinks Tom can't see him. 

Tom only lasts until the end of the Blues game until he can't sit there anymore. He heaves himself up and tosses out a half-hearted goodnight over his shoulder on the way to his bedroom. 

When he gets in bed, he's torn between his frustration at the situation and the return of the decidedly Not Bros thoughts about Andre and his cocky little grin and the way he looks when he squares his shoulders. He doesn't sleep well that night.

He calls Latts the next morning, after Andre has grown bored of waiting for Tom to get up and feed him and gone to bother Nicky for food instead. Latts is up early for practice so he's bustling around making breakfast and getting ready when the call connects and his face appears on Tom's screen. 

He misses Latts like he misses his family, maybe more if he's honest. He hasn't spent more than a few days at a time with his family since his draft year and he and Latts were each other's shadows for years. Just hearing his voice relaxes Tom in a way that no one else can manage, it sounds like home and hockey. Distantly he recognises that this too is pretty Not Bros, but him and Latts have always toed the line so he doesn't give the thought much credit. 

“Bro, your face just did like 7 different things at once there, you trying to work out your penalty minutes again?” 

Tom smiles. 

“Fuck you, dick. I miss you,” the familiarity of it all settles him. 

“I miss you too brother, how is everything?”

“It’s good, how’s Tucson?”

“Fuckin’ hot man,” Latts smiles, “but there’s obviously something wrong if you’re calling me at 6am just to ask how i am.”

Latts always knows. 

“I can’t just be calling to talk to my best bro?” Tom tries to sound hurt, but it’s half hearted at best. 

“Tommy.”

“Fine. Remember that time in Hershey?” He sees Latts’ eyebrows draw together even from the weird angle he’s holding his phone. 

“There were a lot of times in Hershey bro.” 

“Oh my god,” Tom groans, “don’t make this difficult. The time in the hotel with the selfie and the minibar.”

“Ohhh,” Latts draws it out and smiles, “you mean The Time.”

The capitalisation is audible. 

“And remember how it was like, pretty Not Bros but it was still cool after, right?” 

“I mean,” the hiss of steam tells Tom that Latts is making coffee, “it wasn’t the last time it happened so yeah, it was cool. Why are we talking about The Time?”

“It almost happened with Burky.” He garbles it slightly in his haste to get it out there. 

“Ok,” Latts moves to phone to rest against something on the breakfast bar he’s sitting at so Tom can see him properly again, “you’re going to have to explain.”

“You saw his fight, right?” He can talk to Latts about almost anything, they’ve traded more than a few handies in their time, but this is a struggle. 

“Yeah?” He pauses, chewing, “oh, you mean your Thing after fights?” 

Tom’s getting pretty sick of all the capital letters that have no business being so audible. 

“Yeah.”

“I mean, it’s not like he doesn’t know it’s a thing though? He lives with you and it’s not like you’re subtle.”

“Ok but like, he came back to my room and wouldn’t leave me alone so I couldn’t and then he fell asleep on me so I had to do it with him there.” He refuses to acknowledge how his voice turns into a whine at the end. 

“Still probably not that weird for Caps Roomies at this point.” Latts works his way through a plate of bacon as he listens. Tom rolls his eyes. 

“For you and me maybe, but Burky was never like that.”

“Dude you guys literally spent half the time shirtless lying on top of each other wrestling on every surface.” 

“But that’s not it,” Tom hesitates and Latts takes a bite of eggs before he makes a noise that Tom assumes means he should continue. 

“So like,” he pauses again, considering how to explain a weird feeling, “he fought again last night and I have no idea why because nothing bad happened but the whole time after he kept looking at me like he wanted me to do something?” It sounds stupid when he says it out loud, but he’s started now so he may as well go for it at this point. 

“He probably wants you to tell him he fought good, bro.”

“Okay but my point is like, why is he suddenly fighting? That’s not him, is it. He scores goals he doesn’t sit in the box.” 

Latts rolls his eyes. 

“How would I know, why don’t you ask him?” This time Tom is the one who rolls his eyes. This is getting him nowhere. 

“The whole time after he dropped gloves all I could think about was how I wanted to wipe that smirk off his face,” he hesitates, “but not by punching him.”

It takes Latts a second to work out what he means. Tom knows he gets it when his eyes widen and his eyebrows shoot up. 

“Shit. Dude.” 

“Yeah.” 

“I mean,” he chews on another piece of bacon and Tom knows he’s not going to like what comes next by how blank Mike’s face is, “he is pretty cute though. Got those sweet baby blues.” 

Jesus Christ. Tom groans and drops his face into his arm where it’s holding up him. 

“Tommy, for fucks sake,” Tom looks up again to catch Latts’ sharp grin and his shaking head, “it’s fine. Not worth shitting yourself because you thought about something you know gets you off.”

“Yeah, but it’s Andre though,” Tom whines. 

“And? He’s probably thought about you when he jerks it too.” Latts grins when Tom splutters. “I’m serious dude, you didn’t see how he used to look at you sometimes when you weren’t looking. Especially after wrestling.” 

“Are you serious right now?” He cant believe what he’s hearing, because it’s the last thing he expected mike to say. 

“Look, just act normal with him and it’ll either be chill or he’ll do something and you can deal with it then. No big deal.” 

Tom watches as Mike steps out of the frame with his empty plates, his voice growing further away as he moves. 

“Great advice Latts, thanks. Real useful.” 

“You’re bitching but it actually is good advice so thank you and you’re welcome.” Latts’ voice comes closer before he sits down again and Tom can see his smile. He smiles a little, something he can’t help himself doing. 

“You’re literally telling me to do nothing?” 

Latts shrugs, “sometimes you don’t need to do anything.” Tom laughs. 

“Don’t tell me Arizona made you all wise and smart, then I’ll know you really are full of shit.” He feels easier now they’re back on familiar ground.

“The desert has many secrets, grasshopper. Much to learn, there is.” Latts strokes an imaginary beard. 

“Fuck off,” Tom snorts, the fondness clear in his voice, “I’m sick of looking at your ugly face, don’t you have better things to do?”

“Anything is better than speaking to you Tommy, but sometimes sacrifices have to be made,” he laughs, picking up his phone and holding it up as he walks around. His voice is just as warm. 

“I’m hanging up now.”

“I need to go to practice anyway,” Latts says, and holds his phone steady so they can see each other to say bye properly, “miss you bud.”

“Me too, buddy. Skate hard.” 

They smile at each other until the screen goes dark and Tom’s smile gradually fades. He wishes Mike was still here. 

He drops his phone onto the mattress and rolls over onto his back, arm draped over his eyes. He always feels better after speaking to Latts, even if he isn't any further forward. If he’s honest, he feels better just for Latts not telling him to stop being such a fucking creep or something, because Latts is a good bro and he has Tom’s back, even if that's not always a good thing judging by their penalty minutes the last few seasons.

Andre comes back later, while Tom is in the kitchen making sandwiches for lunch. He comes up behind him and attempts to steal a piece of chicken but Tom catches his wrist before he can make off with his stolen bounty. Burky Whines at him when he brings his hand to his mouth and eats the chicken without even looking at him. 

“Make your own sandwich you animal, there's stuff in the refrigerator,” he says, and Burky is pouting at him when he turns around. 

“I’m injured, though,” he whines, holding up his hand and attempting some kind of wounded puppy expression that just makes him look like he’s constipated or something.

“Maybe you shouldn’t pick fights with people bigger than you then,” Tom raises his eyebrow and ignores Burky’s incredulous spluttering. 

“I’m not gonna cut your crusts off for you,” he continues, “I’m not your mom. Go and see Ovi, we all know he’s your real mom, and Papa already fed you once today.”

Burky does, by some miracle, make his own sandwich after pouting and sulking Tom’s general direction for a while. He brings it to the couch and folds his ridiculous limbs down next to Tom clutching the plate proudly. It's bigger than Tom's sandwich, because Burky is a petulant child and never grew up right. 

Maybe doing nothing actually is a viable option here. 

Tom settles in to enjoying doing nothing and removing the stick from his ass until, inevitably, doing nothing stops working. He blames Latts entirely for ever making him think it was an option in the first place. 

Just like last time, things have settled down enough that Tom doesn't think twice about using the signal that he's about to go and jerk it and shutting himself in his room after a few rounds of Call Of Duty and the ensuing wrestling match when Burky resorted to cheating.

“As much fun as wiping the floor with you is, I'm gonna go read a book,” Tom pushes himself up off the floor using Burky’s back and pushes him over for the trouble. 

Objectively it's a dumb signal, because Tom does actually like to read every now and then, even if no one believes he can if it doesn't have pictures in it. It's something they worked out back when Latts was still here and it was a lot more common to walk in on someone with their dick in their hand mid-jerk. There's nothing that kills a boner faster than two grown-ass hockey players moaning outrageously on the other side of the door, and Latts especially took jerking off as a sacred ritual that should be respected and honoured. 

“Kay bro,” Andre says, a strange note in his voice that Tom decided to ignore. 

He lies down when he's firmly shut his bedroom door behind him and takes his time getting comfortable. A quick jerk isn't going to do it for him, he wants to take his time with this, maybe come hard enough that he has to take a nap afterward. 

His hand teases at the waistband of his sweats, fingertips gliding over tanned skin and firm muscle, the other hand running over his chest and over his nipples. He wants to get himself riled up before he even thinks about touching his dick, he has all day to get off and he's going to make it good. 

He kicks out of his pants to continue the teasing, running his nails over the soft skin of his inner thighs and skates them around his dick where it lies against his stomach plumping up rapidly. 

It's been maybe five or ten minutes, he hasn't been paying attention but he know it hasn't been that long, when his phone chimes next to his head where it's lying on the bedside cabinet. He reaches over with his free hand out picks it up since he hasn't really gotten started enough that there's no going back. 

It's a message from Burky, just a link. He swipes on the notification to open it while he continues to run his fingers around his dick and down over his balls, still winding himself up slowly. 

He almost drops his phone when the conversation with Burky opens and he sees the link preview. It's a video of both of Burky’s fights on YouTube and Tom just stares at his screen, hand fallen still. 

Andre knows what he's doing right now and he sent this anyway and Tom feels like a rabbit caught in the headlights. He has no idea if he sent it to talk about later or because he's figured out that watching Andre fight gets him hot. And if he has why is he sending it? 

It's all too much to think about, and his cock is starting to soften. Tom huffs and heaves himself up enough to lean over the side of the bed to pick his laptop up off the floor. He pulls up his favourite porn site and opens up the first video he sees with a girl with huge tits and settles back into the pillows. He's not going to think about Andre at all, and he's certainly not going to let him ruin a perfectly good jerking opportunity. 

He focuses on the video, on the big hand reaching out from behind the camera to squeeze a breast or to guide the guys cock into her, and forgets to look at the actual girl. He pulls his attention back every time, but it doesn't stay there for long. Her eyes, when she's on her knees looking up at the camera about to suck the guy off, are huge and blue, be the way she looks up through her eyelashes reminds him so much of Andre that he groans a little. It's half at the thought of Andre in the same position, looking up at Tom waiting to be fed his cock, and half from unconsciously squeezing his dick harder and from how good it feels. 

Despite his intentions, he doesn't manage to banish Andre from his thoughts for more than a few minutes at a time despite the video, and he comes much quicker than he'd really like to. It hits him out of nowhere like a truck or a punch to the gut and he curls into himself a little as he jerks through it. The last image in his mind before he came was Andre on his back with both wrists pinned by one of Tom's hands and the other around his neck. 

He lies there for a few minutes, one arm flung above his head and chest heaving slightly. He closes his eyes and lets himself drift in the haze for a while. If nothing else, he followed through on coming hard enough to make himself a little stupid with it. 

The sun is in a different position the next time he opens his eyes and he realises he's fallen asleep. A glance at his phone tells him it was only about an hour and a half and that he has three new messages from Burky. 

The first one is a smirking emoji and nothing else, then ‘hurry up I'm hungry’, and finally, an hour later ‘fine I'll get Papa to feed me since you're so busy’ with the frowning emoji. Jesus Christ. 

Tom turns over and shuts his eyes again. He's still groggy enough from his nap that it's hard to keep his eyes open, but he can't get back to sleep. What the fuck is Andre’s game here. 

He thinks back to when he told Latts about it and Latts told him to do nothing and that Andre probably jerked off thinking about him too. It's still not a concept he can make sense of, but the more this shit happens the more Tom thinks that maybe Andre isn't quite as unaffected as he thought. 

He starts to drift, and he can't keep his thoughts away from Andre in his hotel room after the first fight. The way his limbs were loose and his eyes glassy with the rush of it, the way he demanded Tom look after him and how pliant he was under Tom's hands. The way his hands looked against Andre’s hands, huge and rough against his pale skin. He thinks of the way Andre was even more touchy than usual, unable to handle being anything less than curled tight into Tom’s side on the bed with their limbs tangled tightly. 

There’s nothing but the memory of it all, the sensation of everything. The way Burky’s hair smelled, like apples from his shampoo, and the feeling of their skin where it touched. The warmth of him under Tom's arm. He falls asleep again with the image of Andre’s face slack in sleep and the rosy pink of his mouth, slightly open. He doesn't dream.

The door of the apartment slamming closed wakes him up again with a start, and he rubs his face while he tries to pull himself together. He lies there for a minute or two listening to Burky walking around before he heaves himself up and looks for his sweats.

It takes him a while to find them but he finally makes it out of his room, pulling on a Caps hoodie because it's gone cold while he's been asleep. 

“How was papa?” He asks, muffled where he's still trying to get his head through the hole. 

“Good. He sends his love,” Andre smiles at him sweetly. 

“No he doesn’t,” Tom moves over into the kitchen to search for something to eat. Andre pulls out one of the stools at the counter and watches Tom pulling out fruit and veg from the refrigerator to make a smoothie. 

“No. He did actually say hi though.” 

Tom chops up the ingredients, and it takes him a while to realise that Andre is stealing pieces when he turns around to dump the garbage in the trash can. The next time, he fakes Andre out and turns around while he's in the middle of appropriating a chunk of mango. Tom catches his wrist and raises his eyebrows in the face of Andre’s innocent smile, and holds eye contact while he drags Andre’s hand up to his mouth and eats the mango right from between his fingers. 

He has no idea what possesses him to do it, but when he lets go of Burky’s wrist Tom takes in the slight blush dusting his cheeks and goes back to chopping the rest of the ingredients. 

“You've just eaten,” he says, waving the knife at Burky menacingly, “so back off.” 

Despite the faint blush, Andre is completely unaffected by his threat and grins at him, unrepentant. 

“You just jerked off but you're still grumpy, what a waste of time,” he chirps. He's eyeing up the slices of banana so Tom waves the knife at him again until he holds his hands up in surrender. 

“Never a waste of time, kid. Maybe one day when you learn all about the birds and the bees you'll find out for yourself.” He dumps the fruit in the juicer and turns it on just as Burky opens his mouth to reply. He smiles at him over the juicer when Burky scowls and laughs when he sticks his tongue out at him. 

It's nice and easy, there's no weird tension like earlier so Tom doesn't want to stir anything up by bringing up the link. He's still soft from sleep at he doesn't want to deal with any shit right now anyway, so he lets it lie. It's always easier not to acknowledge shit until it's can't be avoided anymore. 

Tom throws the controller to Burky so he can find something on TV and they end up watching the last half of Men In Black in a comfortable silence. 

When it finishes, they flick through the TV guide to find something else and end up arguing over whether or not to watch Walking Dead. Tom needs to catch up on a few episodes but Burky hates zombies because he's a wimp. In the end, as usual, Burky gets his way and Tom ends up going into his room to bring his laptop into the lounge to watch it there. He makes sure to close all of the porn tabs before he comes back out. 

He lies on his back on the other side of the couch from Burky and rests his laptop on his stomach. Halfway through the episode he catches Burky shooting him a glance and quickly looking away. He ignores it, but he catches him doing it a few more times before the episode ends, and he keeps doing it. 

Burky obviously thinks he's being subtle about it. There are many words to describe him but subtle isn't one of them. Tom pretends not to notice outwardly and allows Andre to keep stealing glances for whatever reason he's doing it. 

It makes him think that maybe Latts wasn't entirely wrong though. He can't see it being exactly how Latts said, that Burky has a weird thing about Tom too, but he could see Burky still having some kind of fascination for him, maybe a bit of hero worship or something like that. It's not enough for him to start considering doing anything about it though, so he shifts on the couch until he gets comfortable again and keeps watching his show until Andre finally gives up and says goodnight. 

Not even a week later, Burky is in one of his moods where he’s determined to get as much attention as he possibly can. He’s been shoved and facewashed and caught in a truly ridiculous amount of headlocks with his practice jersey pulled over his head but he’s still not satisfied. At the end of practice, Tom drops his gloves and motions to Burky to drop his too. 

Burky’s grin spreads slowly and curls at the corners of his mouth. Tom bats at him a few times, slapping softly more than landing punches, and Burky does his best to land anything on him where Tom has his jersey pulled tight in his fist. 

They separate, and Tom takes it upon himself to give Burky a reminder of the impromptu fighting lessons from him and Latts last season. They’re not at it too long before Ovi skates over to offer encouragement in the shape of chirping. 

“Our Burky is real tough guy now, you show him good moves,” Ovi hoots, cutting in to play fight with Andre himself. It’s a lot more ridiculous, watching the two of them but as pointers go, fighting with Ovi isn’t terrible. He doesn’t fight much but he can handle himself well. 

Eventually Trotz comes back out to the bench and chases them off the ice so they shove and slap each other all the way into the dressing rooms. 

Tom finishes getting dressed and goes out to wait by the car for Burky to show up, eventually. He still has that mischievous look, like he somehow still isn’t satisfied. He ignores it. 

They go for groceries, because the cupboards are bare and the refrigerator only has condiments in it again. He still gets chirped enough about ketchup that he’s not willing to let it stay that way (for the record he’s more of a BBQ guy, Latts was the one obsessed with ketchup).

The whole way around the Whole Foods Andre purposely walks in front of him and takes great pleasure in throwing things into the basket over his shoulder as close to Tom’s face as he can manage. Tom tolerates it until a bag of spinach hits him square in the face because he turns to ask Burky a question as he throws it. Then the whole thing devolves rapidly into chasing each other around the isles when there’s no one else around and slapping at each other like kids. 

They get more than a few weird looks but fuck it, they’re having fun. 

Once they’re back in the apartment and the cold stuff is thrown approximately where it needs to be and the rest of it is left on the counter they separate to pack for their overnight to Toronto. Or, more accurately, Tom goes to his room to pack for Toronto and Burky follows him like a puppy who doesn’t know when it’s time to stop playing. 

Burky flops down on his bed and watches him throwing things at the bed to fold properly in a bit. He’d never usually pack this far ahead, he’s definitely not as organised as that, but there’s a team bonding night at Oshie’s and Tom knows that neither of them are going to want to do it before practice tomorrow. 

It takes him a while to realise that Burky is moving his shit around every time he turns back to his closet and he rolls his eyes at him in fond exasperation. This, apparently, isn’t enough of a reaction for Burky. 

“You really taking this?” He says, holding up Tom’s favourite shirt between two fingers like it's a filthy rag, “it’s hideous.”

“Must be why you bought the same one, then,” Tom replies without turning around. 

He hears a dismissive noise and continues packing. 

“Why do they look like you got them in the 70s or something,” is the elaborately workshopped chirp Burky comes out with when Tom is choosing ties. It’s awful, and the sheer desperation is what gets Tom to turn around and give him an incredulous look. 

Burky grins, having gotten what he wants. 

Tom doesn’t dignify him with a reply, calmly bringing his chosen tie to the bed to add to the pile of clothes. He strikes while Burky still has his guard down and dives on him when he looks down at his phone. 

Andre squawks as he’s hit with the weight of Tom (all muscle, thanks) and tries to get away while Tom works on pinning down each of his limbs. 

“What now, huh?” He taunts, grinning wide at Andre’s struggles to get free. His legs are kicking wildly and Tom brackets them between his knees and bears his weight down on them to trap them. 

“I can’t breathe, you’re too heavy!” Andres voice is muffled in Tom’s armpit and he squeezes harder to hear him cry out, half laughing and half groaning. 

He stops struggling suddenly, as Tom get his arms pinned above his head. His chest is heaving and Tom can feel it the whole way down his body. Even on the ice he doesn’t think he’s ever been as aware of himself, every inch of his skin firing signals at his brain. 

They’re inches away from each other, close enough that Tom’s eyes go slightly blurry when he tries to focus on Andre’s eyes. There’s a warmth in his gut that he doesn’t want to think about too closely. 

Tom moves to get up, to break the moment and laugh it off, help Burky up and get back to packing like there was never a moment where Tom couldn’t take his eyes off Andre’s lips. 

As he shifts, he feels a hardness against his leg and hears a sharp intake of breath. Andre goes rigid, and Tom freezes for a second before he looks back to Andre’s face. He swallows, hard, and then tilts his chin back. 

“Gonna do something about that?” There’s a slight hesitation in his voice, the confidence obviously forced, but Tom isn’t about to back down from a challenge. The moment stretches between them. 

Eventually Tom rolls off to the side and reaches behind him without breaking eye contact to reach under the pillows. He left the lube there last time he jerked off, too lazy to tidy up in the boneless haze. 

He yanks down the waistband of Burky’s shorts just enough for his dick to bob free, not quite fully hard but getting there quickly, and shoves his own down. 

Andre tries to swallow a gasp when Tom moves back on top of him, looking like he can’t quite decide if Tom is serious or if this is some kind of gay chicken. Tom is serious. 

He shifts his hips and finally brings their cocks together, Tom’s weight creating the perfect amount of friction between them. But it’s not enough. 

He places an arm beside Andres head to take some of his weight, enough that he can slip a lube-slick hand between them and get a good hold on both of them. 

“Fuck,” Andre breathes, and his hips buck up into it. 

Tom can’t look away. As he jerks them off, slow and steady, he watches Andre’s face, watches everything he feels flit across his face plain as day. Every time Tom squeezes or twists his hand on the upstroke Andre’s breath stutters and his eyes close tight in pleasure. He’s enthralled by it. 

Andre is obviously trying his best to keep his reactions in but they keep bleeding through. Tom respects that, as far as Burky is concerned this is still bros, just bros helping each other out in a situation, but he can’t stop watching Andre, can’t quite make himself drop the eye contact even when Andres is looking back at him. He can’t stop watching Andres lips, shiny and pink, open to pant softly. He looks so good it’s fucking criminal. 

Tom thinks Andre is getting close, he's having trouble keeping his hips still now, and he suddenly remembers that the last time they wrestled, Burky Dropped like a stone when Tom pinned his neck. He struggles with it for a few moments. Would it be too much, would it be weird? The whole situation is weird enough, he figures, a little more wouldn’t hurt. They’re likely never going to talk about this again so what’s one more thing to not talk about. 

Tom uses the arm beside Andre’s head that’s still holding his weight. He slides it over the sheets and wraps it around Andre’s throat, keeping as much weight on his elbow as he can so that he doesn’t choke him, but he can feel the pressure on his throat in his hand. Andre’s eyes snap open, lips parting further around a gasp. His hand flies up from where it’s been fisted in the sheets beside him to grip Tom’s wrist, but he doesn’t try to pull it away. If anything, it’s making sure he keeps it there. 

Andre’s muscles tense, and Tom can feel his hips stuttering. He catches Andre’s eyes and squeezes slightly. 

It’s all it takes. Andre’s face scrunches up, he looks fucking devastated, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy, before his throws his head back and he bucks hard. He comes all over Tom’s hand, and the thought of jacking himself off with Andre’s come nearly kills him. Tom comes so hard he loses a few seconds of time. 

He comes to with his face buried in Andre’s neck. They’re both panting, and both of Tom’s arms are bracketing Andre’s head now, one hand still curled loosely over his throat. 

He does the considerate thing and shifts his weight off Burky’s chest, sliding down his side but keeping his face in his neck and his leg slung over Andre’s hips. 

It should be weird, he thinks, the both of them lying there coming down off what was, if he’s honest, a pretty stellar orgasm, but it’s somehow not. 

They lie there and breathe, the silence stretching between them but never becoming awkward. After a while Tom pulls his face out of Andre’s neck and rolls over completely to lie beside him. His hand trails off Burky’s neck, almost caressing it as it goes, but Andre doesn’t let go of Tom’s wrist. 

His mind drifts, nothing particularly taking shape enough to be a thought other than pure sensation. The way Burky feels against him, the looseness in his muscles, the satisfaction in his bones. It’s a good feeling, and he has no desire to move or to be anywhere else right now but here. 

Eventually after what seems like both a few minutes and an eternity Andre turns to smile at him, his huge smile that feels like walking outside from the shade into the middle of the desert. 

“Thanks, bro,” is all he says before he heaves himself up off the bed to go and do something that’s not this. 

Tom waves him off limply, still working on pulling himself together. Something in his chest unclenches though, like letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, at the thought that things definitely aren’t going to get weird. They can do this and still be them. 

It’s enough to make him smile and roll himself over onto his stomach. He needs to finish packing before the party. They’re going to do it again and it’s going to be great.


End file.
